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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23757757">Quiet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/didoandis/pseuds/didoandis'>didoandis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Happy Ending, Breathplay, Child Death, Choking, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I'm British so's my spelling, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Not Beta Read, idiots to lovers, offscreen but referenced a few times</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:08:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23757757</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/didoandis/pseuds/didoandis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Geralt,” Jaskier said. His voice was… odd. Geralt looked at him. He had one hand on Roach still, one hand at his neck. His fingers were resting on a thin, leather band around his throat that hadn’t been there a minute earlier.</em>
</p><p>Geralt makes the mistake of telling a mage he likes the quiet. He didn't intend to be taken quite so literally.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>126</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2213</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Quiet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Based purely on the TV series. Set some time after episode 5, Bottled Appetites.</p><p>To expand on the warnings: before the story opens, one of Geralt's contracts involves the discovery that several children have been killed. There is no explicit detail at any point but he remembers it a few times.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt didn’t hate things. Hate, like anger or love or fear, was not a useful emotion; and emotions that were not useful had been well trained out of him. </p><p>He would allow, though, that he found nobles… irritating. </p><p>Poor folk pointed him in the direction of a monster; he killed the monster; they gave him coin, as much as they could, and he left. They were always afraid of him. Sometimes their fear manifested in stillness and silence, sometimes in stones or rotten vegetables, but either way it was simple. Get job, do job, get paid.  </p><p>Nobles always had to dress things up for some reason, like nothing could pass without ceremony. Case in point: the feast he was currently forced to be at after killing a kikimora, seated at the lord’s high table, amidst clouds of perfume, candle smoke and chatter. In the distance, Jaskier was playing that godsawful song about the supposed hag he’d killed two towns back. There was a particular high bit that always set his teeth on edge.</p><p>“Is the food not pleasing to you?” the woman next to him asked. She’d introduced herself, but Geralt hadn’t been paying attention. She was a mage, with the false beauty and scent of power and arrogance and boredom that usually accompanied mages. Yennefer had the arrogance and power, but she wasn’t ever bored. Her underlying smell was a kind of heartfelt rage at the universe; it was one of the reasons Geralt liked her. </p><p>“It’s fine,” he said. At the other end of the hall, Jaskier hit the high note. Geralt winced. </p><p>“Perhaps it’s the music,” the mage said. </p><p>“No,” Geralt lied. He hated this song. The “hag” had murdered five children before he’d arrived, and all he’d been able to do was return their bones to their parents for burial. She had been an old, mad woman convinced that killing children would make her immortal. Geralt had cut her down swiftly, and not enjoyed it. Jaskier had made it all much prettier: a noble quest, an evil young witch, a rescued babe. It was just a lie, dressed up and perfumed to cover the stink. </p><p>The mage smiled. “Then what is it?”</p><p>Geralt stood abruptly, the scrape of his chair lost amidst the noise and revelry. It was probably rude; he didn’t much care. “I just prefer the quiet,” he told the mage, who dipped her head at him, the smile still playing on her lips. </p><p>He was forced to cross most of the hall to reach the way up to the sleeping quarters. It was a large enough room that by the time he got the door Jaskier, inevitably, was at his side. He smelled of alcohol and sweat and his eyes were shining.</p><p>“You can’t leave yet, the feast has barely started! I’m only one song into the cycle of the White Wolf and frankly, Geralt, the ballads lose something of their edge when you’re not sitting there glaring and looking terrifying enough to have done all the things I’m singing about. Come on – what’s not to like? Wine, women and song, my friend, all for free!” </p><p>Geralt sometimes wondered if Jaskier even listened to the words pouring out of his mouth. He grunted. “Nothing’s free,” he said, “and I’m going to bed.”</p><p>Jaskier’s face shifted into the look that said <em>I don’t know why the witcher is grumpy but I’m not going to argue</em>. It wasn’t one of Geralt’s favourite looks. “Right, well, if you’re sure. I’ll see you in the morning – the fans await!”</p><p>“Hmmm,” Geralt said, sceptically, and left. Upstairs, the room he’d been given was grand, but cold. He re-lit the fire, cleaned and sharpened his swords, and eventually gave up waiting and fell asleep under damp sheets and musty furs.  </p><p>Jaskier had clearly managed to find one fan, because some hours later he was woken by laughter, the soft fall of clothes, and the sound of flesh meeting flesh in the room next door. He rolled onto his front and pulled the pillow over his head. </p><p>Jaskier hit the high note. Geralt groaned, and tried not to listen. </p><p> </p><p>The morning did not bring a great improvement to his mood. He was tired of people and castles and noise. He belonged on the Path, and it was calling to him. </p><p>Jaskier was waiting with Roach at the front gates, murmuring gently as he fed her bites of apple. He had been patiently training Roach with bribes. She was getting spoilt, which was also annoying. There were scratches and bruises just visible on Jaskier’s neck and collarbones. He smelt of sex and woodsmoke and cinnamon; happy. </p><p>“Let’s go,” Geralt said. </p><p>“Morning to you too, you great slab of misery,” Jaskier said cheerfully. “Looks like someone got out of bed the wrong side. You, my friend, badly need a tumble. Or a fight, maybe, I’m never sure how much you know the difference. Work off some of that energy.” He made an obscene gesture. Geralt scowled.</p><p>“Shut up, Jaskier,” he said, and Jaskier grinned at him, turning to mutter more sweet nothings into Roach’s flicking ear. </p><p>“Witcher!” someone said behind him, and he looked back to see the mage from the dinner. She was as beautiful in the sun as she had been in the candlelight, bright and smiling. Her deep blue dress shone where it clung to her like oil on water, distracting attention from her power. He didn’t trust it. “All well?” </p><p>“I have the coin,” Geralt said, shrugging. “I’m about to have the quiet.”</p><p>“There’s more to life than coin,” the mage said. She came closer, touched his hand briefly and then looked pleased, as if she’d just heard a good joke. “You may not have realised that yet, but even the long-lived can learn.”</p><p>“My days of lessons are over,” Geralt said, and turned to go. </p><p>“Such presumption,” the mage said. “Consider this, then, a parting gift.” She touched his hand again, and Geralt felt her magic pass through him: amusement with an edge of spite, the sharpsweet taste of lemon and honey. He recoiled, and she met his eyes. Her gaze was flat and dark, and he could not read her expression. </p><p>Behind him, Jaskier made a small, shocked sound.</p><p>“Good luck, witcher.” The tone was mocking. She shaped a portal in the air and walked through before he thought to reach for a sword. He took a step back, shook his head as if to clear it from the flavour of the spell. What had she done?</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier said. His voice was… odd. Geralt looked at him. He had one hand on Roach still, one hand at his neck. His fingers were resting on a thin, leather band around his throat that hadn’t been there a minute earlier. “Um. This is new.” </p><p> </p><p>They stopped in a clearing a mile away. Geralt was keen to get some distance from the fucking castle, and the fucking mage (though he had no doubt she was somewhere far away and beyond reach by now) and all manner of fucking useless people making his life complicated. He had not yet managed to get any distance from Jaskier, who had been half-running to keep up with Roach, breathlessly listing all the reasons Geralt was an idiot, particularly when it came to mages. Geralt couldn’t disagree, in fairness, though he had no idea what he’d actually done. </p><p>He pulled Roach to a stop and dismounted. “Let’s look then,” he said. The sun was shining weakly through the mostly bare trees, casting gentle lines of light across the fallen leaves and tufts of grass and Jaskier. The general effect was far too peaceful for his mood.</p><p>Jaskier glared at him, hands on hips. He wasn’t truly angry, though. Geralt had learned the difference by now, and this was the look that said <em>you are impossible and I don’t know why I’m here and yet</em>. It wasn’t one of the worst ones. </p><p>“Yes,” he said, “let’s look at the magic necklace which, I feel the need to mention, is around <em>my</em> neck, despite the fact that <em>you’re</em> the one who managed to piss off yet another dangerous and unscrupulous woman!”</p><p>“You piss off women all the time,” Geralt pointed out. He stepped closer to Jaskier, who tilted his head to let Geralt see. </p><p>“Not women who could kill me without breaking a sweat,” Jaskier muttered. “Well, mostly not, though there was one innkeeper in Redania, her muscles, Geralt, you never saw such thighs…” </p><p>Geralt ignored him. He could tell Jaskier was only talking to distract from his nerves. He squinted at the band. It was about a finger-width wide, resting just above the Adam’s apple, close fitting but not restrictive. Geralt tried to pull it away and found no give; felt around it and found no seam or catch. It was just… there. He took his shortest knife from his belt, angled it carefully and nicked the edge of the band. </p><p>“My neck!” Jaskier protested, but without much heat. It didn’t make any difference, anyway; the knife made no impression on the material, whatever it was. It felt like leather, but it thrummed under his fingers with the mage’s strange, sickly tasting magic. </p><p>“Hmmm,” Geralt said. </p><p>“I know that grunt,” Jaskier said, sighing. “That’s the ‘I have no idea but I’m loath to admit it’ grunt. What the hell did you do last night? You were at the feast for barely five minutes, it usually takes people a little longer to start plotting against you. It definitely takes at least a day for people to start plotting against <em>me</em>.” </p><p>“Nothing,” Geralt said. He hadn’t done anything, had he? The mage had barely spoken to him, and he’d talked even less. Certainly nothing that would justify… whatever this was. </p><p>“Well it must have been <em>something</em>, because in case you hadn’t noticed I have a mysterious new necklace and it really doesn’t go with my style!”</p><p>“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt said, off-hand, because Jaskier’s tone was building to the pitch where he was likely to rant for a full hour and Geralt couldn’t cope with that right now. </p><p>The band twisted beneath his fingers, and Geralt felt the magic deepen into something oily and dark. Jaskier’s words were strangled in a panicked inhalation of breath. Geralt stepped back; Jaskier’s hands lifted to his neck, tugging desperately at the band cutting off his air.</p><p>He thought, <em>no!</em> and the band loosened. Jaskier bent over double, breathing, breathing, breathing, for as long as it took him to catch enough breath to say, “Geralt. <em>What the fuck</em>.”</p><p>Geralt opened his mouth. Closed it again. Jaskier was glaring at him, the blue of his eyes gone icy. “Maybe,” he said.</p><p>“Maybe <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“I told her I liked the quiet,” Geralt muttered. </p><p>Jaskier gaped at him. “And, what, she decided to grant you the power to shut me up at will? She couldn’t have just bought you some fucking wax to stick in your ears?”</p><p>The pitch of his voice was climbing upwards again, the way it did when he was outraged. Or aroused. Geralt winced. </p><p>“Oh don’t you dare,” Jaskier said. He was vibrating with anger. More than the situation merited, Geralt couldn’t help but feel. “I am not going to keep quiet just because it pleases you!”</p><p>“You never do,” Geralt said under his breath. He knew it was a mistake even before Jaskier snapped his mouth shut tight and turned to walk on. He’d known it from the expression on Jaskier’s face before he turned away: a wave of pain, like he’d been slapped.</p><p>Geralt, confused, followed. He couldn’t quite decide what the hurt in Jaskier’s eyes had meant. It seemed disproportionate; normally Jaskier rolled with punches both real and metaphorical, and came out smiling. But something was different this time, it seemed. His silence felt heavy, as if it was hanging in the air, muting the sound of the birds and their footsteps. Geralt told himself this was just what he’d wanted. </p><p>They had travelled perhaps half a mile when Jaskier stopped again. He smelled of a fire, on the edge of going out: a sullen ash smell that Geralt knew meant he was either upset or exhausted. Could be either. He’d clearly got very little sleep. </p><p>“What happened with the djinn?” Jaskier asked. He still hadn’t turned to look at Geralt, was staring straight ahead of him, a muscle ticking in his jaw. </p><p><em>Fuck</em>. </p><p>“Because I’m putting two and two together here and though maths was never my strong suit, I’m coming to a fairly inescapable conclusion.”</p><p>“Jaskier—”</p><p>“No wonder you were so keen to get it fixed,” Jaskier said. “And there I thought it meant you actually liked me.” He laughed, abruptly and without any trace of humour, and Geralt winced. The thought stirred in his mind: <em>you could end this conversation, if you wished</em>. </p><p>No more wishes, he told himself. He opened his mouth, closed it again. After all, what could he say? He’d wanted peace, he’d wanted to sleep? That sometimes Jaskier’s voice, the constant hum of noise, was as aggravating as an itch? He didn’t think acknowledging that would help matters. </p><p>The silence stretched.</p><p>“I see,” Jaskier said, eventually. “All right then.” He started walking again, lute bumping against his back, hurt and tension evident in every step. Geralt knew he ought to do something about it. Unbidden, the memory came, of Jaskier’s blood red against his lips and a panic beyond anything he’d felt in years, and the world folding in on itself until all he could hear was Jaskier struggling to breathe. He’d never wanted to feel that again. </p><p>Geralt knew he ought to say something, but he had no idea what. Roach whickered at him. And so he followed in Jaskier’s footsteps, careful to maintain what felt like a safe distance. </p><p>Jaskier didn’t say a word or play a note for the rest of the day. Geralt told himself it was a nice break, but he couldn’t rid himself of the way Jaskier had looked, when he’d first realised what Geralt had done, the way his eyes had dropped and he’d turned away. </p><p> </p><p>As dusk came down, they reached a village. Geralt had considered pushing on through, but the thought of setting up camp and passing the evening without Jaskier talking to him felt uncomfortable. He paused to look at the noticeboard, found nothing worthy of his time. Jaskier had walked on and stopped outside the tavern, a wide, low building with the light of fire and candles glimmering from unboarded windows. When Geralt approached, Jaskier was still looking away, still rigid with tension in every line of his body. </p><p>“I am going to go in there and get a room and a meal, and later tonight I’m going to play, and if you do anything to interrupt my performance I will <em>gut you while you sleep</em>. Do you understand me?”</p><p>Geralt read the pure intent in his voice, and nodded. Then he remembered Jaskier wasn’t looking at him and said, “yes.” </p><p>The bard stormed into the inn, leaving Geralt wondering what he could have, or should have said. Roach snickered next to him, and he sighed and went to find the stables. She was no help. </p><p>He stayed far away from the tavern that evening, from the light and noise. Just in case. It wasn’t far enough to avoid the faint sound of music and laughter on the breeze. He gritted his teeth against it; ran through the supplies he needed in his head. </p><p>He was expecting Jaskier to be there when he returned, but the tavern was dark and silent, and the room the innkeeper showed him to was empty. Perhaps Jaskier had left. Geralt wouldn’t have blamed him. </p><p>He meditated for the rest of the night, conscious of a half-formed thought that he couldn’t quite pin down. His mind never quieted, and sleep was hard to reach.</p><p>He was relieved beyond words when he reached the stables the next day to find Jaskier waiting there, arms folded and staring off into the distance. He tossed a bag of coin as Geralt approached. “For the room,” he said. “Also, my next song is going to be called <em>The Ballad of an Ungrateful Bastard</em>, just so you know.”</p><p>“Jaskier—” said Geralt. And then, in the face of Jaskier’s carefully raised eyebrow and blank expression, realised he didn’t have anything to add. </p><p>Jaskier sniffed and pressed his lips into a tight line. But he fell into step behind Roach readily enough as they set off along the green hills. Geralt didn’t really understand why he was still accompanying him. But he wasn’t going to ask about it.  </p><p> </p><p>The road out of the village sloped gently upwards, passed through fields and coppiced woods until it emerged just below the brow of a hill. The sun was warm, the breeze was light. It should have been tranquil and pleasant but after some time Geralt began to feel uneasy. The sward was bracketed on one side by a steep drop, the other by thick trees. It felt exposed in a way that had all his hackles raised. He couldn’t hear anything, but he felt something pressing down on him all the same.</p><p>Behind him, Jaskier was plucking at the strings of his lute mindlessly, the notes of a scale rising up and down and up again. Occasionally he muttered something under his breath, but he’d hardly spoken out loud since they left that morning. Geralt should have been pleased but he wasn’t.</p><p>Something skittered in the undergrowth to his left and he reached for his sword. Jaskier said, “Geralt, I think I heard—” and then Geralt hissed, “quiet,” and a warg exploded out of the bushes, heading straight for them. It was a blur of brown fur, teeth, the scent of blood and damp. He took off running, leading the beast perhaps half a mile distant before turning to make his stand on the higher ground. </p><p>The warg growled at him, saliva dripping from its jaws as it hurled itself forward. It was starving, its ribs plainly visible, and Geralt spared it a moment’s pity before moving to defend himself. It was hardly a fair fight; the beast fell to his sword almost the minute it attacked. He took no pleasure in the kill except for the knowledge he was making the path along the hill a little safer. </p><p>When it was done, he walked back at a more measured pace before picking up an odd whistling noise ahead of him. He frowned and moved faster, coming over a curve of a hill to see Jaskier on his hands and knees, head down, arms trembling, gasping for breath.</p><p>Jaskier, who he’d told to be quiet. </p><p>He thought, <em>fuck</em>, and felt the magic lift. Now he was paying attention, he could taste it, the oily edge that had gone unnoticed in the chase. Jaskier’s arms gave way and he tipped forward, rolled over, panting in great gulps. </p><p>“Jaskier,” Geralt said and moved to kneel at his side, hands helpless in the air above him. </p><p>“Do not fucking touch me,” Jaskier said in between gasps. He was turned away but Geralt still recognised the tone. This was real anger, a rarity. The worst. </p><p>“I’m—”</p><p>“You’re <em>what</em>,” Jaskier snarled and pushed himself up to sit. There was a tear on his lip where he’d bitten it. “If you dare say you’re sorry I swear to all the gods I will break this curse with a dagger in your eye.”</p><p>Geralt felt this was unlikely, but he didn’t think pointing that out would be helpful. “You should…”</p><p>“Oh, yes, tell me, great witcher, what should I do? Shut the fuck up, presumably? I’ve had enough of that, thank you!” He was trying to yell, but he must have been hurting too much; his voice was thin and hoarse. “At least you don’t have to worry about my singing for the next few hours, my throat is shredded.”</p><p>“You should go,” Geralt managed. “It’s not safe. With me.” He watched the words land, saw Jaskier’s eyes widen and his mouth set into an even grimmer line. </p><p>“I can’t, you idiot, don’t you get that? Say I travel halfway across the continent and I’m settling in for a lay or a concert and somewhere, miles away, <em>you</em> think ‘remember that bard Jaskier? He was fucking annoying’ and the next thing <em>I</em> know is I’m dead for lack of air. And you’d never even realise.” He snarled again, a wordless growl of fury and frustration. “Geralt, we have no idea what this is, how it works, or how far the connection between your brain and my neck will stretch. So like it or not, and your opinions are pretty clear on that front right now, we are stuck together until you get this fixed.”</p><p>“I don’t know how to fix it,” Geralt admitted. At the edge of his mind was the thought that when they did fix it, Jaskier would leave before a single second had passed. And he’d be right to. He’d thought, that morning, that Jaskier was following him because he still wanted to. He hadn’t realised it was because Jaskier was scared, now he knew that Geralt might hurt him. </p><p>Jaskier huffed, and stood, one arm thrust out in rejection when Geralt moved to help. “Then you’re just going to have to learn to control it,” he said. </p><p>“I don’t know how,” he said. </p><p>Jaskier threw his arms up to the sky in exasperation. “This isn’t really my area of expertise either!” he shouted. His voice cracked halfway through and Geralt winced. “What does it feel like, when it happens?”</p><p>Geralt tried to think. There was… a feeling, and then an intention, and then a taste. He tried to explain this, stumbling in the face of Jaskier’s steady glare. His expression said, <em>I would rather be anywhere in the world but here</em>.</p><p>“If you catch the feeling, can you stop it?”</p><p>“I don’t know!” Geralt said. He didn’t usually need to examine what he did, years of training and practise had smoothed his every thought and action into rote, and he wasn’t sure he was enjoying this new experience at all. He was having terrible flashbacks to Vesemir’s sarcasm as he’d drilled him, over and over. The mage had said something about teaching him a lesson. Perhaps this was what she’d had in mind. </p><p>“Well, try!” said Jaskier. “Listen, when I play, right, my fingers know what they’re doing, but I have to get them in the correct shape first. Does that help?”</p><p>“Maybe…” said Geralt. He thought about the signs, how intention led to shape led to action. If he gave this a shape, then perhaps he could make it conscious. He twisted his fingers into a position that was almost <em>Axii</em> but not quite. </p><p>Jaskier picked up his lute from the ground, sat crosslegged and started playing the song about the hag. Geralt frowned. “I know you hate it,” Jaskier said. “Shut me up.” </p><p>He didn’t want to. But when Jaskier hit the high note (which came at the point when Geralt nobly bested the vile sorceress and rescued her latest victim, which was the worst lie in the whole damn ballad) he found himself wishing it would stop. </p><p>He moved his fingers as his mind seized the thought and the chorus cut off with a yelp. Shamed, he let the shape go, told himself to let the desire go. </p><p>Jaskier touched the band around his neck, moved his head from side to side, and put his fingers back on the strings. “Good,” he said. “Do it again.” </p><p>“I don’t want to,” Geralt said. </p><p>“I don’t care,” Jaskier told him, and started playing. </p><p> </p><p>Two days passed before they reached the next town, by which time Jaskier had almost lost his voice entirely from a combination of too much singing and repeated strangulation, and Geralt wanted to strangle him with his actual hands instead of his mind. He had got quite adept at controlling himself, though; and the anger and misery that had been pouring off Jaskier had lessened to something more like a trickle, though it wasn’t gone entirely. </p><p>The next town had the brittle, paranoid air of a place under siege. The market stalls were poorly stocked, the passers-by walked slowly, and never made eye contact, and the buildings were rundown, paint peeling, repairs undone. Geralt didn’t like the smell of it. Jaskier clearly didn’t either; almost unconsciously he’d drawn closer within five minutes of coming through the gates. </p><p>“Not sure I can find a ready audience in this dump,” he muttered. Geralt decided not to point out that his voice was in such a bad way he’d be lucky not to get pelted with vegetables. Partly because it was the first real thing Jaskier had said to him recently, and partly because Jaskier didn’t seem to mind being pelted with vegetables, or as he put it, free food. </p><p>“There might be a hedgewitch,” Geralt said; it didn’t seem like the kind of place that could support any kind of trained sorcerer. “We could see if they have any suggestions about your curse.” </p><p>“It’s your curse, I’m just the innocent victim,” Jaskier said, crossly, but he started to look around with a bit more interest. </p><p>The noticeboard didn’t have any jobs posted, so Geralt went to find a stables where Roach could get some food and water, and Jaskier went to ask after a witch. He looked on edge when he came back to find Geralt checking Roach’s hooves. </p><p>“I don’t think we should linger,” he said. “The stallholder looked like he wanted to eat me.” </p><p>Geralt rolled his eyes. </p><p>“He did!” Jaskier protested. “Definite ‘we’re planning to sacrifice you to some dark god or other’ vibe about this place, don’t you think?”</p><p>“It’s just a poor town in the arse end of nowhere that doesn’t like strangers,” Geralt said. He should know; he’d been through hundreds of them. “Do they have a magic user?”</p><p>“They do,” Jaskier said. He pointed off vaguely to the east. “Over there somewhere.” </p><p>Geralt had grown used to Jaskier’s inability to hold directions in his head for more than five minutes, but never to enjoy it. He walked the way Jaskier had indicated until he smelled spices, ointments, the sharp tang of power. The witch’s shop was as rundown as the rest of the place, but inside it was clean and well ordered, with herbs hanging from the ceiling and jars neatly labelled on shelves. The witch was a practical looking middle-aged woman who, Geralt suspected, mostly relied on common sense and herblore, dressed up with some sparkles when the occasion demanded. </p><p>She seemed intrigued by the problem, once Geralt had interrupted Jaskier enough to tell it sensibly and give a live demonstration. Jaskier was doing his best hard-done-by hangdog expression, which Geralt was amused to see had no impact at all. She touched the band at Jaskier’s neck, then insisted on holding Geralt’s hand for several silent minutes. </p><p>“Well,” she said when she was done, “I can’t fix it, but I’m mostly certain it’s fixable.” </p><p>“What does <em>that</em> mean?” Jaskier said, throwing his hands into the air. The witch gave him the unimpressed stern look of a woman who’d dealt with many complaining children, over the years. It was a good look, it made even Jaskier quail slightly. </p><p>“What I say,” she said. “It was cast by a mage with much greater powers than mine, so even if I knew where to start, I imagine it would be risky for me to try. But I can sense the shape of the spell, and there’s – I don’t know how to explain it – a full stop, or a get-out clause, built in. It’s designed to end, if certain conditions are met. But don’t ask me what they are, because I can’t tell you.” </p><p>It was better than Geralt had been expecting, honestly, if not as good as he’d been hoping for. He paid the woman the few coins she asked for her time, and was about ready to leave when Jaskier asked, “while we’re here – is there any particular reason everyone in this town acts like they all came from a funeral?”</p><p>The witch looked at him thoughtfully. “Several of them have, most likely,” she said. “The local lord is not much interested in us, and the roads between here and the city are regularly raided. Not that it stops the lord from levying larger taxes each year, none of which he spends on securing his lands.” She shrugged. Geralt scowled; it wasn’t an uncommon tale, but that never made the hearing of it easier. </p><p>As they left, he could feel Jaskier looking at him. Jaskier probably wanted him to do something heroic. He should really have known better by now. </p><p>“Let’s get out of here,” Geralt said, and heard the click as the bard opened his mouth, and closed it again. </p><p>They bought a few meagre provisions, fetched Roach and headed out of the town half an hour or so before sunset; it seemed like the kind of place that would bar the gates at dusk. Geralt set a steady pace, wanting to be as far away as they could get before stopping, in case tonight was one of the nights that travellers on the road got attacked. He wasn’t particularly worried about bandits, but he didn’t want trouble either. </p><p>He’d drawn back his attention to focus wholly on Jaskier, his heartbeat, his footsteps, his regular, slightly quickened breaths. He waited until Jaskier started stumbling on every other step as the light faded out. He would have stopped earlier if Jaskier had complained, but he’d stopped doing that recently. Geralt wondered whether the spell had trained him out of it, and found he didn’t care for the idea. </p><p>He dismounted, preparing to lead them off the path to find somewhere to make camp, when the first sounds of hoofbeats came down the road towards them. </p><p>Hundreds of them. He swore. When the mage had said raids, he’d thought: ten men, maybe a few more. Plenty to waylay an unsuspecting traveller. This wasn’t that. This was an army – thirty men at least, perhaps as many as fifty, judging by the number of horses. Not too many to fight, perhaps, but in the dark, in close quarters…</p><p>Jaskier was staring at him, attention caught by the way Geralt had frozen to listen. He probably couldn’t hear anything yet. “Get on the horse,” Geralt said. “Now, Jaskier.”</p><p>“What is it?” Jaskier asked, whispering. He took a step forward, one hand on Roach’s pommel, standing sideways to the road, looking at Geralt. His expression said, <em>I’m confused but I guess you know what you’re doing</em>. </p><p>Geralt opened his mouth – he would never be sure, after, if he’d planned to explain or snap at him again – when the drumming of the hoofbeats escalated, just round the corner ahead of them, and the first arrow thudded into the path at Roach’s feet. She shied, blowing harshly in fear, pulling Jaskier forward with her. </p><p>Which meant that the second arrow hit Jaskier, high in the meat of his right arm, just below the shoulder.</p><p>Jaskier screamed, and Roach whinnied, in full panic now. Geralt’s thoughts seemed to run simultaneously at lightning speed and at snail’s pace, mapping out the odds – they needed to run, but getting Roach calm and Jaskier on her back was impossible in the time remaining; and he needed to slow the bleeding; and anyway he couldn’t fight fifty men, not on horseback with bows; not and protect Jaskier from the fray. </p><p>He stepped forward, caught Roach’s bridle and swung her round to point back to the town. He slapped her firmly on her haunches and whistled sharply. She took off running, her eyes still rolling and her mouth frothing, and he forced himself not to wonder if he would find her again. Jaskier was staring at him. He’d half raised his left arm to touch his shoulder, but then his knees buckled. Geralt caught him before he fell and turned them swiftly into the woods, pulling them into the darkness as fast as he could, which was not fast. </p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier said, panting, “that was an arrow, Geralt, what the fuck.” </p><p>“Sssh,” Geralt told him. The horses were passing them now, back on the road, chasing Roach and her supposed rider. He didn’t know if that would satisfy them, or if they’d come back. They needed to find somewhere defensible. They needed to be quiet. </p><p>“There’s an arrow in my shoulder,” Jaskier told him, almost conversationally. He’d started shaking, going into shock. The blood was still welling from the wound, Geralt could feel it soaking into his sleeve, where he had his arm round Jaskier’s back. </p><p>“I know. Be quiet.” He didn’t think they could go much further. He could see a larger tree with high roots just ahead. He laid Jaskier down in the hollow between them, drew his swords and thrust them hilt up in the ground where he could reach them easily, then pulled a knife from his belt to cut the arrow shaft flush against Jaskier’s flesh. </p><p>“Shouldn’t it be out of my shoulder?” Jaskier asked. He sounded dreamy now. His eyes were blown black, but his breath hitched with pain every time he inhaled. Geralt tore a strip off his own shirt, took a deep breath and pressed it down hard on the wound. </p><p>Jaskier’s legs kicked, a reflex as if he could run from the pain, and he wailed. Geralt couldn’t press a hand over his mouth, not and maintain the pressure. The raiders were most likely far off now. But if they came back, if they heard – there were too many of them. Jaskier was shaking underneath him, a mindless keening rising in the still night air. “Be quiet,” he begged, leaning over to rest his forehead against the bard’s. “Jaskier, please…”</p><p>Jaskier moaned as he shifted. His left hand fluttered up to his throat, his eyes locked on Geralt’s. He hadn’t ceased the low, thin, wail; Geralt wasn’t even sure he knew he was doing it. He pressed his fingers against the band and jerked his chin down. </p><p>And Geralt realised what he meant. “No!” he hissed. Jaskier, the stubborn idiot, nodded again, and far off, Geralt heard the hoofbeats again, returning. </p><p>There was no choice, he realised. He hated not having a choice. He formed the sign with bloody fingers, let his mind push the intent, watched the band tighten, just enough to cut off the sound. </p><p>Jaskier nodded again, still staring directly at Geralt, blinking back tears as he drew breath in lightly through his nostrils. His look was the one that said <em>trust</em>: solemn and sincere. He was so young. And all Geralt could do was kneel over him, staunching the bleeding, until Jaskier passed out from the pain, until the danger passed. </p><p> </p><p>He started walking an hour after he heard the last of the hoofbeats die away north, keeping off the path, Jaskier slung over one shoulder. The blood had stopped, but the wound was hot and swollen. He had his silver sword in its sheath, carried the steel one in his spare hand. </p><p>It was dawn by the time they returned to the subdued town. The gatekeepers looked for a moment as if they might argue but he put one hand on his sword and they let him in. He found the witch’s shop easily, and roused her easily too. Possibly he’d roused the whole neighbourhood. </p><p>She didn’t wait for him to explain, just nodded him into a back room with a long wooden table to lay Jaskier down on. She slit Jaskier’s sleeve to see where the arrowhead had penetrated the flesh – Geralt winced, thinking of how angry he would be, later, when he was well – and started to boil water, fetching a sharp knife, gauze, herbs to pack the wound. Geralt watched. Her actions were careful, unhurried, and her face calm. He said, “Can I leave you to it?”</p><p>She glanced up. “What are you going to do?”</p><p>“Need to find my horse,” he said. His hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. </p><p>She nodded, sharply. “Good,” she said. “About time someone did something. Go. I’ll shift him to the tavern, when I’m done. You’ll find us there.” </p><p>Geralt found Roach. The men had caught up with her, and taken her back to their base, presumably to use or sell; the saddlebags were still intact, Jaskier’s lute case still strapped down. The raiders had barely bothered unsaddling their own mounts before getting drunk and passing out for the day; the smell of cheap spirits lingered. Geralt let out a breath, and got to work. </p><p>When he got back to the tavern he found the witch and Jaskier lying on the bed in a room over the bar. His face was pale, the skin on his arm and chest flushed. The witch looked at the stains on his swords and nodded sharply, satisfied. </p><p>“Stay as long as you want,” she said. “They won’t want paying, not after what you did. Keep him cool, have him drink, keep changing the dressing. Call me if you need.” </p><p>“Will he—” Geralt said, then stopped, and she shrugged. </p><p>“Hard to say,” she said. “There’s infection. But he seems fit. I’ve done what I can, but I’m no mage.” She shrugged again, and left. Geralt realised he’d never even asked her name. </p><p>For the next two days, the world shrank to the size of the room, the bed, trying to get Jaskier to take swallows of water. </p><p>He wasn’t quiet, when the delerium took him. He murmured snatches of song under his breath, spoke in long, nonsensical sentences. Sometimes they had the cadence of a story, sometimes he seemed to be angry, or sad. Sometimes he gasped and struggled for breath, eyes wide with panic, and Geralt couldn’t tell if he was caught in his memories of the djinn, or of the last two weeks. </p><p>Once, when the fever was at its highest and Geralt was worrying if it would ever break, he curled up around himself and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again. Geralt didn’t know who Jaskier was talking to. He was fairly sure it wasn’t him. </p><p>He was starting to realise how much he didn’t know. He got up onto the bed, pulled Jaskier up to rest against his chest so he could stroke through his hair and whispered, “hush, hush,” until Jaskier slept again. But he said it with words only. </p><p>On the third day, when Jaskier woke, the light in his eyes was clearer. He gazed across the room at Geralt, blinked lazily. One hand reached up to touch the band around his neck.</p><p>“Damn,” he muttered.</p><p>“Damn what?” Geralt asked, amused. </p><p>Jaskier blinked again. “Thought. Maybe. If I trusted you.” He spread his fingers wide in a “ta da!” motion around his neck, then sighed. “Guess not that simple.” </p><p>His eyes closed again before Geralt could ask how he was feeling, before Geralt could ask why his first thought, when injured and hurting and scared, was of what would break the curse. But of course Jaskier wanted to break it, how could he not? Geralt should want to fix it. They were tied together. It was terrible. </p><p>He stood, looked down at Jaskier, pale and sweaty after the fever, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks. He should get a bath brought up. Some soup. </p><p>He didn’t move.  </p><p> </p><p>It took a week for Jaskier to be well enough to travel. He thought he was ready after three days, but he was overruled by the witch – her name was Hanna, Jaskier had asked – and Geralt had grunted his agreement. Geralt spent the time on a few small jobs; no monsters, but there were things a strong man could do that were welcome. Jaskier spent his time sulking over his ruined doublet and composing a song about the local lord’s grasping nature that caught on like wildfire and was liable to start a revolution. Geralt hoped they were a long way away before it did. </p><p>He was a little pale, still quieter than normal, but he smelled less unhappy than he had before they’d been attacked. It didn’t make any kind of sense to Geralt, but then Jaskier rarely did. </p><p>On the eighth day they set off with half the town turning out to see them go, waving and cheering like they were minor royalty. Jaskier lapped it up, and played <em>Toss a Coin</em> hopefully at the crowds, though it didn’t seem to have any impact. Geralt wasn’t sure what to feel. </p><p>When they made camp that evening, he said, “Don’t write a song about this.” </p><p>Jaskier was sitting on the other side of the fire, lute in his hands, the light casting shifting shadows over his face. “Oh come on! It has everything: poor people under siege, peril, blood, impossible odds, a righteous victory. You couldn’t get a better basis for a ballad, Geralt, stop curbing my creativity.”</p><p>“It’s not true,” Geralt said. “I butchered those men while they slept and I didn’t do it for the poor people, anyway. I did it for—” He closed his mouth. </p><p>“For what?” Jaskier asked, smiling at him, and when the silence stretched added, “I could work in a verse about the witcher’s red rage when his most loyal companion was wounded if you like.” </p><p>Geralt groaned. “Please don’t.” </p><p>“When a humble bard…” Jaskier sang at him, his grin stretched wider now, and Geralt had to suppress the urge that rose within him, could <em>feel</em> his fingers itching to move. Instead he just said, “shut <em>up</em>, Jaskier,” and Jaskier said, “no.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“No,” Jaskier repeated, calmly. He was still smiling, but it didn’t reach his eyes anymore. “I won’t shut up. I <em>know</em> you know that, so I don’t know why you keep asking.” </p><p>“I live in hope,” Geralt muttered. </p><p>“Oh fuck you,” Jaskier said. His face was hard to see, in the firelight, but the bitter smell of unhappiness was rising from him again. “Do you know, when I was growing up, how often people told me I’d be better seen than heard? How many teachers thrashed me for talking back? There’s been a queue of people lining up my entire life telling me to stop talking, stop being difficult, stop making a fuss, do this, do that, settle down, behave… and I’ve never listened to a single bloody one of them because I am who I am and if anyone doesn’t like it, they can fuck off. And that includes you, Geralt, <em>and</em> your fucking curse.” </p><p>Geralt felt, for a moment, like he was the one with a band round his neck, cutting off his air. </p><p>“And I know you know what it’s like,” Jaskier continued remorselessly. “I’ve seen how you react when people throw stones at you, when they mutter about you behind your back, when they cheat you after a job, just because of who you are. You of all people should know what it feels like to be judged and hated for something you can’t help, for being yourself. So don’t do it to me.” </p><p>He shut his mouth with a snap. Geralt could hear his heart beating fast in his chest, angry, maybe a little frightened. </p><p>“I don’t,” he said, then stopped, because he wasn’t sure what he didn’t, only knew that he had to make Jaskier understand that it wasn’t like that, that he didn’t hate him, couldn’t ever hate him. He shook his head, desperate, his fists clenched. Jaskier seemed to realise that something was wrong because he laid the lute down, shuffled round the fire, put a hand tentatively on his arm and said his name, softly. </p><p>Geralt kissed him. </p><p>It was a terrible kiss, teeth clashing together, and Jaskier sprang back like he’d been burned by it. Geralt opened his mouth to say something, no idea what his expression was, and Jaskier said, “don’t you <em>dare</em> apologise,” and leaned in to do it again. </p><p>The second kiss was a lot better, now Jaskier was in charge of it. He paused long enough to ask, “Geralt, are you sure?” and whatever Geralt’s face was doing it must have successfully conveyed just how sure he was because Jaskier swallowed, said “right!” and kissed him again. </p><p>They fumbled like schoolboys, after that, Geralt’s hands clumsy on the ridiculous number of buttons and ties on Jaskier’s clothes; Jaskier’s fingers surer, pushing Geralt’s trousers down to curl rough and certain round his cock. Geralt groaned and tipped them both away from the fire, Jaskier gasping and wriggling in the dirt. He said, “you brute, there’s a stone right under my arse, fuck, don’t stop—” because Geralt was kissing his way down Jaskier’s chest to where his cock was already rising, begging for attention the way the rest of Jaskier always did. </p><p>He gave it the attention it deserved, taking it slow, ignoring the way Jaskier’s hands were buried in his hair, the increasingly high pitched babble emanating somewhere above him. His world was just tongue, fingers, the heavy weight of Jaskier in his mouth, the warmth of it. Jaskier smelt like a banked fire, smoky, glowing, flush with potential. Geralt could feel the fire building, the way his words collapsed into wordless noise when he came with a cut-off cry. He swallowed some, let the rest spurt over Jaskier’s chest, and Jaskier beamed at him, tugged Geralt up by the hair to lie against him, swiped his hand though his own come and reached for Geralt’s cock. </p><p>It was filthy, and perfect, and Geralt came faster than he’d meant to, rutting against Jaskier’s calloused fingers around him, pressed between the heat of their two bodies. </p><p>Then there was silence.</p><p>“Fuck,” Jaskier said after a while. He sounded dazed.</p><p>“Mmmm.”</p><p>“I’ve been wanting to do that for years.” </p><p>“Mmmm.”</p><p>“Also I already composed a whole song called <em>The Monster Hunter’s Monstrous Cock</em> so I’m glad to know I didn’t exaggerate.” </p><p>Geralt growled at him and bit at his neck. The band was still there. Jaskier seemed to realise it at the same time, because he sighed and said, “guess sex wasn’t the magic cure-all either.” </p><p>“Mmmm.”</p><p>“Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try again. You know, to be sure,” Jaskier said, and yawned.</p><p>“Mmmm.”</p><p>“Maybe in a bed next time,” Jaskier suggested. </p><p>“Mmmm,” Geralt agreed. </p><p> </p><p>They did it in a bed next time, in the next village. Twice. And then again on the road after that. They didn’t really talk about it, though Jaskier talked plenty during. It just seemed to be something they were doing now, in the same way that it was Geralt who brushed down Roach and hunted for dinner when they made camp, while Jaskier lit the fire and sorted the bedrolls. Maybe they should have talked about it; Geralt wasn’t sure. When he had Jaskier keening under him, Geralt’s fingers in his arse and his mouth on his cock, he thought words were probably overrated. But he also found he didn’t want Jaskier to stop talking, so much, anymore. </p><p>The next village they came to had a surprisingly decent inn, with an innkeeper who offered dinner and ale on the house in exchange for music. Geralt settled into a corner with a drink while Jaskier played. He tuned out for the first few songs, the classics, the ones he’d heard a hundred times before. </p><p>Then Jaskier started singing the one about the hag. Geralt felt his heart beat a little faster, the sweat rising on his skin. He couldn’t be there. He couldn’t stay in the same room as that story. If he did, he’d do something he’d regret. The wish was already there, burning in his mind, for it all just to <em>stop</em>. </p><p>He stumbled away from the table, clumsily, and fled upstairs. He meant to sharpen his swords, do something useful, but instead he found himself just sitting, his hands digging into his thighs. </p><p>It was a long time, just sitting, till Jaskier came to him. </p><p>He was annoyed, Geralt could tell; his look was the one that said, <em>you could at least pretend to like what I do</em>. “Good performance, I thought,” he announced, to no one in particular. “Good crowd, too, shame you missed it—” and then he must have seen Geralt properly because the words died away and he said, “what’s wrong?”</p><p>Geralt didn’t want to talk, the same way he didn’t want to talk about the new thing between them, but Jaskier was starting to smell a little uncertain and that was worse. He said, “it’s that song. The one about the hag.” </p><p>He could see Jaskier starting to bristle, ready to defend himself and his art, saw him decide not to a moment later. Instead, he came to sit down on the bed, and laid his hand on top of Geralt’s, gently easing them away from their bruising grip. </p><p>“What about it?” he asked. </p><p>“It’s not <em>true</em>,” Geralt said. </p><p>Jaskier blinked, left one hand holding Geralt’s and lifted the other arm to pull him into a hug. Geralt let it happen. “None of my songs are completely true,” he said, softly. “Not on the surface. But I like to think underneath, there’s something real. You <em>are</em> brave and noble and you <em>do</em> protect people and save lives.”</p><p>“But not then,” Geralt said, and felt like he was drowning. There wasn’t enough air, not when he remembered what he’d found that day. </p><p>“Oh,” Jaskier said. He held Geralt tighter. “I see.” </p><p>“What am I for,” Geralt said, “if I can’t—”</p><p>Jaskier hummed to himself for a while, and let Geralt shake. Then he said, “Not everyone can win every time. Not even you. I’m sorry.” </p><p>“You should leave,” Geralt said. “You shouldn’t trust me.” </p><p>“I do though,” Jaskier said. “And you can’t make me go.” He stood up, bringing Geralt with him, and started undressing him, humming softly still, and then gently encouraged Geralt into the bed. They lay quietly, Jaskier’s arms round Geralt, Geralt’s head nestled under Jaskier’s chin. </p><p>After a time, the shaking went away and he slept. </p><p> </p><p>When he woke, sunlight was already streaming in at the window, and Jaskier was sitting on the windowsill looking out. He must have heard Geralt move, because he turned and said, “The landlord’s agreed we can have the room for free tonight if I play again. I thought maybe you could do with the rest.” </p><p>Geralt stretched, and realised he’d probably slept more that night than in the past few weeks, and his body was glad of it. He made a beckoning gesture at Jaskier, and Jaskier came back to the bed, nestled in under the blankets and kissed his cheek. </p><p>“Too many clothes,” Geralt told him, and Jaskier laughed and said,</p><p>“Oh, it’s like <em>that</em>, is it. Good morning to you too.” But the pink flush in his cheeks and his bright eyes told their own story, and Geralt took his time, stripping him of shirt, breeches, small clothes, until Jaskier was lying naked on the bed. Naked apart from the band round his neck. </p><p>Geralt was kneeling over him, legs pinning Jaskier’s arms tight to his sides. He leaned forward, reached down to take both their cocks in one hand and Jaskier’s whole body shuddered in reaction. “Darling,” he said, and Geralt touched the band around his neck gently, wrapped his fingers around Jaskier’s neck so it was hidden from view. </p><p>“You shouldn’t stay,” Geralt said. “You shouldn’t want to.”</p><p>“You’re terrible at pillow talk,” Jaskier said and thrust up against him, the friction making Geralt groan. “And you don’t get to tell me what I want.”</p><p>“What do you want?” Geralt asked, helplessly, because he wanted to give it to him, wanted to give him everything. </p><p>“I want you,” Jaskier said, simply, like it was simple. “I trust you.” He pulled one hand loose, and rested it over Geralt’s where it lay around his neck, pushing Geralt’s fingers harder onto the band. “You know how much I trust you. Let me show you.” </p><p>Geralt shook his head, sharply, but his cock jerked beneath him and Jaskier laughed at him, softly, bit at his own lip. “Shut me up, witcher,” he said. “I know you want to.” His look was saying something clear and uncomplicated and true that Geralt knew the name of but couldn’t let himself think. Not yet. </p><p>He leaned over further, slowly using his right hand, the weight of his body, to grind their cocks together, harsh and raw. And as Jaskier keened, he used his left hand to shape the sign and take Jaskier’s control away. </p><p>Jaskier arched, gasping, tears coming to his eyes, but he still smelt warm, unafraid. Geralt leaned further down, kissed him, let the hold go long enough for Jaskier to inhale the air Geralt gave him. He kept Jaskier on the edge, held down by the press of their flesh together, his lips, his will, waited till the bard was straining upwards, shaking, face red with tears and desperation, and then let him go, let it all go. </p><p>Jaskier’s cry when he came was almost soundless. Geralt collapsed over him, touching every part of him that he could touch, and breathed, and breathed, and breathed. </p><p> </p><p>Perhaps a week later, they were passing through a forest. They were making their way, slowly, towards the county’s capital, assuming they’d find a mage there, but taking their time about it. Last night they’d slept together in the moonlight, Jaskier with his head on Geralt’s shoulder, breathing softly into his neck. Tonight, perhaps, they’d find a stream or a pond to wash in, and Geralt could take him that way, wet and slick in his arms. </p><p>Geralt was ahead, leading Roach – the canopy was low, there was no point in riding – Jaskier behind, his lute slung in front of him. He was picking out a tune, rhyming fragments of sentences under his breath, occasionally breaking off to call Geralt’s name and start some complaint, or story, or song. “Geralt,” he said, “Geralt, do you know how hard it is to find anything to rhyme with bloedzuiger? Whoever named these beasts was not thinking of bards, that’s for sure. It reminds me of the time in Oxenfurt when Priscilla challenged me to write three stanzas about our least favoured tutor Professor Blantigan.” Geralt didn’t need to turn to hear the smile in Jaskier’s voice. “I did it too—”</p><p>He wasn’t listening, really; he allowed Jaskier’s babble to become part of the world, along with the leaves rustling in the trees and their footfalls on the path, the sound of animals moving in the bushes, the slow beating of his own heart. It was all music, in the end. It was all right. </p><p>Jaskier let out a startled “oh!” and Geralt turned, one hand on his dagger in readiness. Jaskier’s fingers were at his neck and Geralt felt sick and cold. He hadn’t even noticed, he’d thought—</p><p>Then Jaskier took his hand away to reveal bare skin, a thin red mark where the band had been. </p><p>“Huh,” Geralt said, which was all he had time for before Jaskier was whooping at the sky and dancing like a mad thing.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t the same after that, but it wasn’t different either. </p><p>Geralt had half expected him to leave, but he woke, and he fought, and they slept, and he woke, and every morning Jaskier was there. </p><p>Jaskier asked about it only once, one night as they were resting side by side, the stars overhead and the fire burning softly. He asked, “do you think there was a lesson? Have you figured it out?”</p><p>Geralt thought of wishing for quiet, and finding it louder than he could have dreamed. He thought of Jaskier’s theory that it would pass once he had learned to trust Geralt, had learned to be quiet, and how that didn’t work. He thought about the moment when the spell was broken, when he realised that Jaskier’s voice and Jaskier’s heart had become entirely natural to him. He said, “I think it was for me. Not you. That’s all.” And Jaskier burrowed a little deeper into his side, so close he could feel him nod. </p><p>“I’ll just have to make up something grander than a grumpy witcher learning to tolerate a loud-mouthed fool,” he said, and when Geralt made a noise of protest he laughed, and leant up to press a kiss against Geralt’s neck and say, “I know, I know, love, it’s grand, it’s the grandest thing.” There was no fear in his voice, none at all. </p><p>It was the same but not the same. Geralt remembered, sometimes, the way Jaskier had shaken in his arms, trusting him with his life as Geralt formed the intent to take the air away, how his hand had tightened in Jaskier’s dark hair as he leaned forward to breathe for him. He had no idea what to do with these memories. He didn’t want Jaskier silent and bound to him. And yet. </p><p> </p><p>A few days later they reached the county town. They’d been hearing word of a recent illness, a wave of fresh bodies that in turn attracted ghouls and graveirs. The town was sad and grieving, and the work hard if satisfying, killing the creatures that preyed on other men’s rest. Jaskier had been behaving oddly, subdued and a little squirrelly, crying off the fight on the basis that he’d seen plenty of undead by now, thank you, Geralt, and anyway they stink. </p><p>They did stink. Geralt stopped at the bathhouse first when he came back to the inn. After he’d finished, he found that Jaskier wasn’t in the main tavern, and Geralt followed his scent up the stairs to their room, a thin edge of worry in his gut. </p><p>Jaskier was sitting on the end of the bed, head bowed, fingers fidgeting in his lap. He looked up as Geralt entered, smiled the way he did, like the sun had come out. Foolish, but Geralt couldn’t say he minded. “Good fight?”</p><p>“Finished fight,” Geralt grunted, and let his swords and bags fall gently to the floor. “Good day?”</p><p>“Ah. Well,” Jaskier said, which was never a great sign, and Geralt sighed. </p><p>“Made any enemies I ought to know about?”</p><p>“Not yet,” Jaskier murmured. He stood, moved nearer. “I. Um. Got you something.”</p><p>Geralt quirked an eyebrow, amused; he’d known Jaskier for a decade, been sleeping with him for a month, he had assumed they were long past courting. But Jaskier’s heart was beating a little faster, his sweat tinged with the sour smell of adrenaline, and so he waited for Jaskier to come to him, waited for him to stop twisting whatever he was holding round in his fingers long enough for Geralt to see it. </p><p>It was leather, thin and brown and supple. A catch at one end, the kind that could be slipped loose or tightened depending on how you pulled it. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat. Jaskier looked determinedly anywhere but at his face. </p><p>“If,” he said. “I wasn’t sure. But. If you want—” and Geralt cupped his head in his hands and leaned down to kiss him, felt the heat rise to Jaskier’s cheeks. </p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier said, laughing into his mouth, “Geralt, dearest witcher, you’re going to have to use your words—”</p><p>“Yes,” he said, moving one hand to clasp around Jaskier’s neck, firm but safe. “I want.” And Jaskier closed his eyes and held his breath and kissed him back, silent and sure. </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier was loud. He was brash, and he wore overly bright clothes, and he turned everything that happened to him into a joke, a story or a song. He didn’t know how to avoid trouble, and when he was in trouble, he didn't know how to shut up. He laughed and he talked and he made noise like the world would end if he didn't. </p><p>But sometimes, for Geralt, he’d be quiet.</p>
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